


Blessed

by doctormissy



Series: Prompt Fills and Challenge Entries [12]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Late at Night, M/M, Missions Gone Wrong, POV Q, Prompt Fic, Regret, mentions of injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-25
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-11-04 19:55:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10997880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctormissy/pseuds/doctormissy
Summary: It was 3:28 AM when Bond left. How could Q possibly think that this—he—meant something to Bond?It was 3:28 AM two weeks later when the comms went silent. Bond went MIA. Again. And it was his fault, Q thought.It was 3:21 AM when Bond left. And it was 3:28 AM when he came back.That time was a constant in Q's life. Sometimes bad, sometimes good, but always a constant.





	Blessed

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Tumblr's Fandom Writing Challenge. The prompt was random + 3:28 AM. That would easily suggest the "Bond bursts into Q's flat in the middle of the night because he's injured and has nowhere to go" trope, but I decided to break that and make it different.

It was 3:28 AM when Bond left. 

The sudden lack of a warm body next to him, an unused to but calming weight on the other side of his otherwise pitifully empty bed, woke Q up. 

He drowsily rolled over and glanced at the alarm clock at his bedside. Not wearing his glasses, he had to squint to see the damned green numbers. They were mocking him and his unbelievable naïvety. The blinking colon between the 3 and the 2 was laughing in his face, making him face the cold reality. 

How could he possibly think that this—he—meant something to Bond? How could he be so fucking stupid? Bond has come home from a mission, and he was in need of a thorough shag. Q was there. He was convenient. Bond very well knew he liked him—had an impossible, heart-rending crush on him for _years—_ so he exploited that situation and took him out for a drink. He was nice, he was actually fucking _nice_ all evening, and a drink turned into five, and a takeaway meal, and hungry, drunken kissing in a side alley, and, God, the best sex Q has ever had. But that was what it was: a one-night stand that had messed with Q’s feelings more than both of them would expect. 

Or perhaps Bond had done it on purpose? Was his sense of humour that cruelly bittersweet? Q sighed and rolled onto his back again. The sigh turned into a snort, and the snort then turned into a sob. His hand clutched at the rumpled sheets underneath his tired, naked form. 

Q loved Bond. Bond used Q. The truth was agonisingly simple. 

Bond did not even bother to say a word as his gorgeous arse stood up from the bed and collected the clothes scattered on the floor. He did not say a word when the door to Q’s flat clicked closed. He did not say a word that day at work when they passed each other in the hallways of Churchill’s bunkers. 

Q pierced the ground with his eyes. His heart beat fast, knowing Bond was piercing his body with those blue glaciers of his. He did not want to look him in the eye. How could he? 

How could he ever get over what happened at 3:28 AM that night?

 

* * *

 

It was 3:28 AM two weeks later when the comms went silent. 

Q was reminded once again of the absurd lie of the land. 

“007, can you hear me?” Q asked. His voice was firm, yet on the inside, his stomach twisted in fear, and he felt panic crawling up his chest. “007, can you hear me? 007, answer! Bond!” 

No response. 

Bond had hurt him as it is. But he could never forgive himself if something happened to him. He was his agent, and when he was in the field, he was his responsibility notwithstanding what happened between them out of active duty. 

Q could hear the rustling noise of interference that followed those several terrifying gunshots, screams, and… sword fighting? That certainly had not been supposed to occur on such a simple mission. 

It was _hard_ to balls this one up. Bond had an unearthly talent for causing damage where least wanted, that for sure. Literally and figuratively. 

(He hated him for that but also sort of liked the proclivity for the dangerous that he radiated.) 

He did not respond. Bond went MIA. Again. And it was his fault, Q thought. He was the Quartermaster of MI6; he should be wiser than a heartbroken teenager. He was not, and now the object of his sorrows could be as good as dead. 

The time ticking away in the right-hand corner of the screen mocked him again. The hour must be cursed.

 

* * *

 

By a very odd coincidence, it was 3:28 AM again when Bond’s hand twitched lightly under Q’s. His eyelids slowly opened, one millimetre at a time. 

Q came alive with a jolt. He had fallen asleep in the armchair at Bond’s bedside, listening to the steady, peaceful beeping simulating the man’s heartbeat and thinking of all the mistakes that had led to this. Now, he was embarrassed. 

He pulled the hand formerly holding Bond’s away before there were any conclusions to make. He blinked sleep away, too. He glanced at his watch—and had to shake his head in disbelief. That bloody time again. 

He figured out he was asleep for little over two hours. Bond has been lying there for two days, with two broken ribs, three cracked ones, a bullet dangerously close to his left lung, and body so bruised it pained Q for him. 

He’s been with him for the entire time, watching over him like a guardian angel who holds on to the person he ought to protect, notwithstanding all the bad they had done and how much they had hurt the angel. Because he still was worried. Because he still had feelings for him. It was impossible not to. 

“Q,” was the first thing Bond said. His eyes found Q’s, but the man was looking away. He became more interested in his hands. “Q.” 

He finally looked up, and the abysmal blueness of Bond’s eyes made his heart skip a beat. “Good morning, 007. I’m delighted to see both you and the very expensive equipment made it back in one piece.” 

It was hard to remain emotionless. 

Bond managed to conjure up a little smile on his torn lips. “Q,” he whispered again. If he does that again, Q is going to sink. “I couldn’t have known about the alliance with Chinese mafia. There were bloody ninjas.” 

“Of course there were. And what else, Daleks?” 

“It’s not my fault the CCTV was broken.” 

“It is, 007. I heard you throw a piece of wood and whatnot at it.” Q looked at his hands again. He did not want to talk about what they were bound to talk about at some point. But they had to sort things out, eventually. He cleared his throat. “007, we need to talk.”

 

* * *

 

It was 3:21 AM when Bond left. 

He rolled out of the very same bed and pulled his blue briefs on quickly. Without a word or sound, he got up and walked to the kitchen as quietly as he, the agent, could. It still woke Q up, though. He was always a light sleeper. 

For a moment, his heart fell into his stomach. For a moment, he was worried history might repeat itself, worried he didn’t learn from his mistakes and made the same wrong choice again. He thought he was too damn stupid for a genius sometimes, regarding one particular blond agent. 

He sat up and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. Then he let his arms drop on the duvet and sighed listlessly. That was what he felt like: the essence of life being sucked out with every step James made, every breath Q made. 

Time stopped. Q heard noises coming from the rest of his flat: more steps, the swishing of a T-shirt being pulled on, awoken cats pawing at the floor and kitchen cupboards, water being poured into a glass, later a flush of the toilet—but no signs of Bond finishing dressing up or leaving through the front door. Now, he was even more confused. 

He lay down again, facing the crumpled duvet and sheets on the empty spot, breathing nervously, expectantly. It filled up the dark bedroom. 

When Bond wasn’t coming back to him, he rolled over and looked at the sinister clock. 3:25. He closed his eyes; hope, desperation, longing, self-doubt bubbled in his stomach. 

In the end, Q fell asleep—or he thought he did—so when the door creaked on its hinges, he winced. 

James Bond’s smile shone in the moonlight, a smile that was just for him. He was wearing his solar system T-shirt. He intended to rejoin him. He was not escaping. Q looked at his lover, the feeling of warmth having conquered his mind. Then his gaze automatically fell at the green numbers on the clock. 

It was 3:28 AM. 

The hour, the minute, was cursed. But when the impossible man lay in the bed next to him, with a smile and a kiss to his hair, arms round his shoulders, he thought it may be blessed in a way, too.

 


End file.
